Chapter 8: Come In, Sit Down, Stay for Dinner
Bang.
Andrew put his back against the door and pulled it shut harder than he meant to. He stood there, breathing, letting the deadbolt click into place like a period at the end of a sentence he needed to be finished with.
"Seriously?" Christie was already four feet into the apartment, backpack still on, watching him with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who had seen adults lose their composure before and found it predictable. "They were just standing there."
"They had guns, Christie." Andrew kept his voice low on instinct. "I could see the outlines."
"So?"
"'So' is that I'd like to continue existing." He pushed off the door. "What kind of trouble is your mom in?"
Christie's expression didn't change. "You slept over once. That doesn't make you my dad. You don't have to get involved in stuff that isn't your business."
Andrew looked at her for a second. She was eight years old and she'd just said that doesn't make you my dad the way a thirty-five-year-old says this conversation is over. He felt a flicker of irritation — partly because she was right, and being told a true thing by a child in that tone of voice had a specific kind of sting to it.
"I know," he said. "I'm not trying to be anything. I'm just asking."
Christie said nothing. She set her backpack down against the wall and stood in the middle of the living room, not quite sitting, not quite at ease, like she was waiting to see if she needed to leave quickly.
Andrew let it go. He'd pushed enough.
"Stew's going to take a while," he said, moving toward the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable. There's juice in the fridge, Sprite too, help yourself. TV's all yours." He paused. "There's a remote on the coffee table. Try CBS — there might be a Garfield rerun on."
Christie didn't say anything. But she also didn't leave.
Andrew went into the kitchen and started unpacking the grocery bag.
He ran water over the chuck roast, trimmed it, cut it into rough cubes. Got a pot going with a splash of oil, browned the meat in batches the way some instinct from James Holloway's life told him to — the real flavor was in the sear, don't crowd the pan, let the bottom develop before you move it. He'd cooked like this in his other life, alone in a small apartment after long days at a job he'd grown to resent, when takeout felt like one more surrender and cooking felt like something he could control. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.
The onion went in next, then garlic, then a splash of Worcestershire sauce and the crushed tomatoes he'd picked up at the supermarket. Potatoes and carrots in chunks, a bay leaf from the little rack of dried herbs Evan had apparently impulse-bought at some point, enough water to cover it all. He got the lid on, dropped the heat to low, and stood back.
[Cooking (Beginner): 23/100]
He washed his hands, dried them on a dish towel, and walked back out to the living room.
Christie was sitting on the far end of the sofa — not relaxed, exactly, more like she'd selected the position that gave her the best view of both the TV and the front door. Her posture was completely rigid, back straight, hands folded in her lap. She was staring at the wall.
On the TV, Garfield was in the middle of an elaborate scheme involving lasagna and a mailman. The voice actor was doing his best deadpan.
Andrew almost smiled.
He got a can of Sprite from the fridge, poured it over ice into a glass for Christie — cold carbonation, good for a stomach that might have been running on not enough today — set it on the coffee table in front of her without comment, and took his own glass to the armchair at the furthest end of the room.
He sat down and looked at the TV.
Christie looked at the Sprite. Then at the TV. Then, gradually, her eyes stopped scanning and just... stayed. Garfield was delivering a monologue about the moral implications of Monday mornings. Christie's rigid posture softened by about fifteen percent. Then another five. By the time the U.S. Acres segment started, she was sitting like a normal person instead of a sentry.
Andrew watched her out of the corner of his eye and felt something settle in his chest.
She's just a kid, he thought. Under all of it, she's just a kid who likes cartoons.
The next hour passed quietly. The apartment filled up slowly with the smell of the stew — deep and warm, onion and tomatoes and beef doing their long work on low heat. Around noon Christie started glancing toward the kitchen every few minutes, trying to be subtle about it and not quite succeeding.
Andrew checked the pot. The potatoes were nearly done. Another twenty minutes.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Not the flat-handed aggressive banging from earlier. This was a fist, fast and anxious.
Andrew's shoulders went up. He crossed to the door, looked through the peephole.
Bonnie. Alone. No one else in the hallway that he could see.
He exhaled and opened the door.
"Have you seen Chr—" She stopped when she saw Christie standing a few feet behind Andrew, having materialized from the couch silently.
"Hey, baby." Bonnie's voice shifted completely. All the tension went somewhere else. "Come on, let's go back."
Christie walked over without excitement, without much expression at all, and stood at her mother's side.
Andrew looked at Bonnie. She looked rough — not just hungover rough, but the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix. Her eyes had that glassy, slightly unfocused quality she'd had yesterday, and underneath it something that looked a lot like stress she was working hard to keep her face away from.
"Stay for lunch," Andrew said. "I made too much." He gestured vaguely at the kitchen. "Beef stew. It'll be ready in twenty minutes. You might as well eat before you go."
Bonnie hesitated. He watched her run the calculation — the arithmetic of pride versus practicality, of what today's meals for Christie actually looked like if she didn't stay.
She nodded. "Okay. Thanks."
Andrew stepped back to let them in, then leaned quickly into the hallway and checked both directions. Empty. He pulled the door shut and locked it.
Bonnie settled onto the couch heavily. Christie took her usual spot — the far end, straight-backed — and picked up where she'd left off with the TV. For a few minutes nobody said anything, which was fine. The stew was doing the talking.
Bonnie lay back against the cushions, one hand pressed against her lower abdomen, staring at the ceiling with narrowed eyes. The particular thousand-yard stare of someone managing pain they'd gotten used to managing alone.
Andrew went back to the kitchen. He checked the stew, adjusted the seasoning, and then on impulse opened the cabinet above the stove. There — pushed to the back behind a box of crackers — a mostly full bottle of ginger ale, warm. He cracked it open, poured a glass, and let the bubbles settle.
He brought it out and set it on the end table next to Bonnie without saying anything about it.
She looked at it. Looked at him. Didn't say anything either.
Andrew went back to the kitchen.
"Stew's ready in ten," he called out. "Don't come in to help, I've got it."
He heard Bonnie make a small sound from the couch — not quite a laugh, not quite anything definable. But not hostile.
He got three bowls down from the cabinet, the ones that had still been in their packaging until an hour ago, and started ladling.
[Cooking (Beginner): 31/100]
[Chapter Rewards]
500 Power Stones unlock 1 chapter
10 Reviews unlock 1 chapter
Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
20+chapters ahead on P1treon Soulforger